


Pet Parents Welcome!

by Jester85



Series: The Truth About Cats and Dogs [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Retail, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Ohio, POV Steve Rogers, Pets, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:04:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7801204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jester85/pseuds/Jester85
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the whole, Steve Rogers figures a cashier at the most trusted name in pet retailers isn't so bad.  Sure, the hours could be better, some of the animals play havoc with his asthma, and there are days when every third customer seems to have taken their Extra Strength Douchebag pills, but his co-workers are nice and blessedly free of drama, and he gets to pet people's dogs all day.</p><p>It's not where he pictured himself a few years ago, when he was a promising art student at the local branch of the most prestigious college in the state, and sure, his epic sci-fi/fantasy novel ("a cross between Star Wars and Game of Thrones", is the basic sales pitch) is still in an ever-expanding mountain of copious notes and "inspiration" artwork collected on feverish Pinterest marathons, and sure maybe he doesn't really know where his life is going and is terrified of dating, but he's got his roommates, and his dog, and he's just about resigned himself to not really expecting a whole lot more.</p><p>Until one day a certain customer might make Steve realize how much he's missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Last Friday Night

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my attempt at working myself out of my writer's block with the would-be sci-fi/fantasy epic I'm battling by writing something else and hoping it works out the kinks in my authorial muscles. 
> 
> This is my attempt at multi-chapter Stucky. I don't plan for this to be uber angsty, but I'm afraid it gets a little more depressed and angsty than I meant for it too (can't seem to help myself). Not sure how long it's gonna be, or exactly where I'm going with it, though I have some ideas.

_The hair in my coffee is a single tree rising from a dirty brown sea, life defiantly asserting itself in an ocean of waste._

_The crumpled newspaper that blows across my path is a tumbleweed, and the clock on the bank shows high noon._

_My key twists in the ignition, and the sleek shuttle lifts off with a roar of engines and a blast of flame._

_My bed is the sheepskin coat standing between me and the freezing tundra._

_The thin streak of white a jet paints across the empty blue sky is the return of a spaceship from a groundbreaking scientific exploration to unknown worlds._

_My bedroom light is a sun, my blue sheets the sea._

_My clock number clears my access to a top-secret military installation most people will never know exists._

_And then I pluck the hair out, and it is a cup of coffee._

_Back to work that never changes, back to fixed reality, the tree has been chopped down._

*** * ***

Steve supposed this shouldn't have come as a big surprise, but in case there was any doubt, he could now definitively confirm that no, screaming children and yapping dogs were  _not_ a good combination.

Saturdays and Sundays at PetSmart were always madhouses, and this Friday it'd clearly decided to get an early start.

Between the endless hordes of people all flooding up to the register at once, the ten-year-old boy over in PetCare throwing a tantrum he was far too old to be throwing because his dad wouldn't buy him a Chinchilla, the couple who didn't know how to use the nametag engraving machine and glared resentfully after him when he stammered a flustered apology and a promise to page for help as he scrambled back to his besieged register, and and a very disgruntled Dachshund that was barking all the way through the parking lot and all the way through the store, Steve's headache was reaching critical mass.

Anyone who knew Steve Rogers well, could testify under oath in court that he loved him some Dachshunds.  He followed three different miniature long-haired Dachshies on Instagram.  But he wanted to drop kick this wailing banshee out the door as it rampaged from one end of the store to the other, barking incessantly at the top of its small but formidable lungs, at nothing whatsoever.

(he only felt slightly guilty about such dark thoughts; it wasn't like he'd ever actually act on them.  This was the same man who scrambled to rescue the trespassing spiders in the Rogers-Barton-Morita household before his stomp-happy roommates stumbled across them, shooing them into paper cups and depositing them safely on the doorstep)

And to top it all off, Store #0557's Fearless Leader Nick Fury got stung by a bee on his arm, and apparently, contrary to his eternal aura of utter invulnerability, was actually allergic, forcing him to run to the doctor with a swollen left arm, leaving Natasha, in her third week of management, running around like a chicken with its head cut off and looking about ready to tear her hair out.

Steve could relate.  Oh boy, could he.

The endless flood of customers keeping him hopping on register was keeping him too busy to jot down any fleeting impressions of the faces flashing before him, print out a scrap of paper to fill with notes to use for inspiration later, his partner-in-crime Darcy rolling her eyes indulgently from next register.

_\----In her 20s, but the pale silvery wisps of her hair were streaked with hints of lilac and lavender. A diamond nose stub caught the sunlight and danced with the sparkle in her eyes----_

Steve suppressed a huff of annoyance at all the faces going to waste today.  It was too much, sensory overload, all blurring into a faceless sea.

And Headache #5 was approaching hard on the horizon, a blustering middle-aged businessman barreling out the swinging doors of the grooming salon at his back, fuming with the level of righteous indignation known only to an overcharged pet parent.

Through the glass separating them, Sharon caught Steve's gaze for a sympathetic wince at the fury she'd just unleashed upon him. 

Steve managed a faint commiserating smile.  He couldn't blame her, considering she'd already been trying to placate the man for the past twenty minutes.

"The pricing for the premium groom is higher on the weekends," Natasha explained patiently for the third time, in her silky yet husky voice, somehow seeming perfectly poised, while Steve did his best to fade into the background, "If next time you just want to go with the regular---"  
  
"It's.  Not.  The weekend," the man cut in, with the long-suffering air of someone desperately trying to make himself understood to uncomprehending savages, "It is  _Friday._ The weekend is  _Saturday_ and  _Sunday_."

Natasha nodded sympathetically, the faint professional smile still playing at her lips, "They include Friday under the three day weekend pricing---"  
  
"The weekend is _two_ days," the man snapped more forcefully this time, " _Saturday.  Sunday._ I can bring you a calendar if you want!"

Natasha's smile didn't slip a fraction, though it might have grown slightly more forced, more plastered on, in a way only Steve could tell.  "That won't be necessary, Sir.  Let's just take a look at your receipt and take an adjusment..."

After finally getting the huffing man out the door, ten minutes and twenty refunded dollars later, the redhead whipped around and flashed Steve a sarcastic twin thumbs up that made him laugh until he self-consciously slipped his fingers into his khaki pocket, feeling the reassuring weight of the inhaler safely tucked away there.

"Hashtag Yes!" Nat crowed with over-the-top cheer rivaling the overly perky actors in those godawful training videos as she swaggered on her way to put out another fire in another department.

Steve snorted.  #YES was Corporate's latest commandment from on high, basically "empowering" associates to satisfy customers by any means necessary, price-matching with competitors, overriding expired coupons, anything and everything to "Make the Sale" and keep the pet parents happy.

"Hashtag Kissing Ass", Nat quietly called it after their monthly huddle, when Fury was well out of earshot.

And then, just like that, the mad rush was over as suddenly as it began.  Steve felt for the comforting weight of his inhaler and allowed himself a deep, even breath.  His back ached beneath the brace, as it had been for the past few days.  Three eight hour shifts back-to-back hadn't helped, but he couldn't afford any more sick time.  God knows how much he'd end up using further into the weather changes, anyway.

"Well, that was fun," Darcy chimed in at his side, sliding around her neighboring register.  "I always wondered what PTSD would really be like, and now I know..."

"Darce," Steve frowned, brow furrowing as he glanced to make sure Sam Wilson, their new resident dog trainer, was well out of earshot.  Sam had served three tours in Afghanistan working with canine units.  Returning to civilian life as a professional dog trainer seemed to be therapeutic for him.  He'd only been there a couple months, but he seemed to be doing a great job.  Steve didn't think he'd appreciate hearing his PTSD compared to checkout rush hour, though, and, love her to death though he did, Darcy Lewis had literally no filter.

"Good thing that new kid Parker wasn't here for that, we'd probably never see him again."

Darcy quirked an eyebrow.  "Would that be such a terrible thing?"  
  


They exchanged a knowing glance.  Everyone was scrabbling for hours as it was, but that didn't stop Fury from constantly interviewing prospective new hires, splitting the schedule into even thinner slices of company time.  

"Everyone needs a job," he said with the air of trying to convince himself, and Darcy's eyebrow only raised further, giving him a twinge of guilt in the process.

"Mmhmm."

Stepping away from the registers for the first time in two hours, Steve gently plucked his thick-rimmed black-framed glasses off his nose to wipe them on the hem of his blue work shirt, his free hand sweeping up to brush the blond bangs that had fallen down over his face back into the side they'd been combed to.

He was still gingerly wiping when a voice spoke up behind him, deep and smooth.

"Um, got a minute?"

Frowning in surprise, Steve turned, then realized he was facing a tall dark fuzzy blob and his glasses were still somewhere down around his waist.

"Sure," he answered automatically, warm but professional, setting his glasses back on his nose and shoving them up with one finger when they immediately threatened to slip down, meeting the customer's gaze attentively.

Oh shit, the guy was  _hot_.  Tall---Steve had to crane his neck slightly to look him in the eye, though honestly that probably said more about Steve than him---mostly dressed in black, black denim skinny jeans that would have to be peeled off him like a sausage skin, heavy boots, and a leather jacket that looked like it'd seen some wear, hugging a plain white T-shirt.

His face sent a burst of inspiration straight to Steve's brain.   _Pouty mouth.  Strong jawline and sharp cheekbones.  Cleft chin.  Wide irrestible steel blue eyes.  Messy brown hair, soft and fluffy and mussed, begging to have hands run through it---_

_Shit._

"What'dyaneed?" Steve rushed out in a slurring flood, wincing inside at how overly bright, flustered, he sounded.

Those pouting lips might have shown a flicker of a smirk.  In the time it took Steve to try to catch it, it was gone.  

"Uh," the guy started uncertainly, unconsciously sweeping a hand back through his tousled hair and making it even more artfully disheveled.  Steve's eyes flicked down to the chest hair poking up above the plunging neckline of his T-shirt.  "Do you sell dog nametags?"

Steve nodded immediately, relieved to get an easy question.  "You've definitely come to the right place---" the man bit his bottom lip in an utterly sinful way, and Steve needed to get away now, "---hey, Darce, ya wanna show him the nametags and engraving station....?"

To his chagrin, his co-worker was already halfway down the hall, tossing a "I'm takin' a restroom break real quick!" over her shoulder, along with a mortifyingly unsubtle wink that Steve was too terrified to check if the customer saw.

"That happen often 'round here?" the warm, velvety voice purred entirely too close beside him, and when Steve followed the words, he was horrified to see the man was grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

"Uh...what?"   _Co-workers with no filters or boundaries making ham-handed attempts at matchmaking?_

Hot Guy gestured at the corner Darcy had swiftly escaped around.  "Leaving you to fend for yourself."

"Uh."  Steve felt heat pooling over his face at the man's closeness and intense attention, only reddening further as Hot Guy's smirk grew too much to leave any doubt that he'd noticed.  "Nametags?  We have some right over here on the display...."  
  


Hot Guy chuckled lightly.  "Lead the way, Steve."

His name uttered so casually sent another spark of panic/excitement coursing through Steve's already twisting insides.  While it was on full display on his nametag pinned to his chest, most customers didn't bother to learn it, much less within thirty seconds of meeting him.

Steve walked Hot Guy over to the nametag display, authoritatively pointing out the different designs and prices, then explaining the self-serve engraving station, and most definitely did not ogle the way those skinny jeans hugged Hot Guy's ass as he bent slightly forward, intently peering at several tags before picking a plain double-sided black bone-shaped design and meandered over to the engraving machine.

"So people put the dog's name on the front, and their number on the back?" Hot Guy asked, curiously turning the tag over in his hand.

"A lot of people do the dog's name on the front, and their name and phone number on the back.  Some people do their address, but that might be giving a little too much information..."

"Yeah, I think we'll just stick to the phone number," Hot Guy agreed, flashing Steve a conspiratorial wink.  Or was it a flirtatious one?  "Wouldn't want to pick up any stalkers."  

_Get a grip, Rogers.  You are at work.  Stop acting like a teenage girl.  You are At.  Work._

Hot Guy probably wasn't even gay, and even if he was, he could get any man or woman he wanted, so what would he want with a shrimpy stringbean who had to shop for clothes in the kids' section and had a list of health problems longer than his grocery list?  

Hot Guy typed in the dog's name--- _Winter.  Huh._

"His full name's The Winter Soldier," Hot Guy elaborated, as if he felt the need for some reason to explain himself to random retail workers, "Purebread Siberian Husky.  My parents raised him for a professional showdog, but....he's kind of my responsibility now.  I'm not much for dog shows, so I just call him Winter."

Something crept into his easy, warm tones at the offhand mention of his parents, something tense and guarded.  Steve didn't pry.  It was none of his business at all, of course.

"And then the number on the back?" Hot Guy asked, and there was an odd wavering in his voice.  Almost a nervous stammer.

"Or your name and number," Steve offered, shifting his weight awkwardly, confused by the strange currents swirling around them."

"Gotcha," Hot Guy answered, something in his voice growing more firm.  Resolute.  His fingers moved confidently, typing, but words, not numbers.

Steve didn't want to lean over the guy's shoulder, but he was confused, it wasn't a name, or numbers, he couldn't help looking,  _WILL YOU...._

Steve's stomach plunged like a rock.  

The words stared aggressively at him, stark and white in all caps against the black screen.

_WILL YOU GO OUT WITH ME_

His heart was hammering in his chest, he could _feel_ the murmur in its uneven sparrow tremble, and his stomach was roiling, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

"I, uh," he stammered, voice coming out in a breathless flutter, "If you need any more help, someone will page for you," and then he was speed-walking away without daring to steal a glance at Hot Guy's face.

*** * ***

Steve burst into the break room nearly wheezing, greeted with the sight of a spectacularly nonchalant Darcy Lewis, sipping on a Coke can from the vending machine.

"Jesus, the guy was hot as hell, but he really took your breath away, didn't he?" the girl observed, eyebrows wagging in amusement.

Steve didn't answer right away, fumbling for his inhaler and giving it a couple shakes.

Darcy's eyebrows dropped and her brow furrowed.  "Hey, are you OK?"

Steve nodded even as he shot a dose of medicine into his tight lungs.  It was ridiculous.  It was embarrassing.

When he finally managed to stammer out Hot Guy's terrifying, absurd actions, Darcy's expression changed from a flash of concern to looking decidedly unimpressed.

"So....the hottest guy ever to set foot in this store totally wants in your pants within five minutes of laying eyes on you, and you're hiding from him in here why, exactly?"

"You don't just....spring that on someone!" Steve sputtered with a flail of one hand, "He's probably some crazy person anyway.  I mean, who really does that?"

Darcy shrugged, mouth latched onto the rim of her Coke.  "I think it's cute."

"I think it's  _nuts_ ," Steve groused, plunking down wearily into a chair.

Darcy rolled her eyes so hard Steve was surprised her hipster chic glasses stayed on.  "Ugh.  Come  _on,_ Steve.  I know what that asshole Rumlow did to you, but that doesn't mean every guy is gonna treat you like that."  
  


"I know that---"  
  


"No you don't, because you never let anyone get close enough to find out."

"Who's manning the register?" Steve asked by way of totally avoiding that not at all accurate statement.

"Parker's here," Darcy answered with an indifferent shrug.

"You left the new kid up front alone?"

"Uh, actually  _you_ did that when you ran away from the guy who wants to bone you like some Victorian maiden protecting your virtue."

Steve pulled himself to his aching feet with a long-suffering sigh, wincing at the crick in his back.  "I better go make sure he's alright."

"Okay, Mister Care," Darcy snorted with an eyeroll toward the bulletin board covered in posted "Care Cards", on which Steve's name showed up more than once.  "Did you give him a discount?"

"I'm not gonna give a guy a discount just because he's hot!" the small blond protested indignantly.

"Okay, you just do to Mrs. Hrabosky every time she comes in..."

"She doesn't have much money.  She has all those cats to feed...Natasha's never said anything about it, anyway."

"Cause she knows you'll just do it anyway."

"Only to the people who need a little help."  
  
Darcy snorted.  "And Mrs. Rosario."  
  


Steve sighed at the reminder of Dr. Adriana Rosario, the wealthy elderly doctor, hair eternally done up in an impenetrable white bun, who'd almost killed him doing her carryouts of heaping bags of cat food on several occasions.  But truthfully, he couldn't really blame it on Mrs. Rosario.  Steve's penchant for taking it upon himself to do whatever heavy lifting needed done had even made Fury and Natasha have gentle but reprimanding words with him.  Especially after The Incident, where he'd wrestled with singlehandedly hauling the store's largest dog crate, complete with no handles, up the notoriously wobbly employee ladder and given himself an asthma attack.  He'd been forced to sit recovering for fifteen minutes in Fury's office, which had been more frightening than the attack itself, and dredged up moderately traumatic memories of being summoned to his high school Principal's office.

"I'm gonna go make sure Pete's alright," Steve repeated.

"So responsible," Darcy commented dryly.  "Hopefully Lover Boy needs some more customer service."

"Yea well, Hashtag Yes," Steve tossed back.

"More like Hashtag Get the D--"  
  
"Jesus, Darce!"

*** * ***

The vacant engraving station left Steve with a mix of relief and disappointment.  By the time his shift ended and he finally drove his rickety old Jeep with the #FeelTheBern bumper sticker home to his apartment complex where the barren trees had released their leaves to blow and rustle across the wind-swept courtyard, he'd almost convinced himself to stop wondering what might have happened if he hadn't ran away.

Jim wasn't home yet, which left Steve with a flicker of relief.  Clint was propped up in front of the TV in the living room, right leg in its white cast perched on the leg-rest, hearing aids out and closed captions flashing across the screen just a fraction behind the anchors' moving lips.

Steve slipped past without a word.

A quick inspection of the fridge showed three chicken patties left.  He was getting a little tired of them, honestly, but they cost the same as the pack of salami and went a lot further.  Maybe tonight he'd mix it up with mayonnaise instead of mustard, and save the rest of the ramen noodles for tomorrow.

He had to buy milk.  And Captain's food was getting low.  He frowned.  That would be most of the rest of his paycheck, even with the employee discount, but he couldn't let the old guy go hungry.  He'd go to bed hungry himself first.

On cue, a low whine drifted from the shadowy den, where the twelve-year-old German Short-Haired Pointer shuffled awkwardly to his feet, gangly and unsteady and blinking blearily at Steve.

"Hey, old man," Steve whispered, settling into his chair and patting the empty space beside him.  Captain's dull eyes lit up, and he clambered into the chair and immediately flopped onto his side, plunking his heavy head down in Steve's lap.  "How ya feelin' today, Cap?" the blond murmured, gently running the dog's soft leathery ear between his fingers and patting its head.  Captain's only response was a dignified silence.

Steve felt a small pang in his heart at the dog's increasing listlessness the last few months.  He hoped Captain would make it to one last Christmas.

Once the dog's breathing had settled into the steady rhythm of sleep, the man carefully disentangled himself and slipped upstairs to his room, settling into his old well-worn leather chair and opening _Notes.odt_.

 _Wide irresistible steel blue eyes_ was faithfully preserved alongside other snatches of descriptions of other faces that had passed in front of him, but anymore, even glancing over his notes for The Lemurian Star was more depressing than exciting.  Once, years ago, he'd been bursting at the seams with ideas and inspiration ("a blend of  _Star Wars_ and  _Game of Thrones_ " had been the basic sales pitch), but now the only scrap of the epic saga he'd managed to pull out of his head and into the world was an ever-thickening mountain of copious notes, a few feverishly written, then furiously scribbled out paragraphs, unfinished just like the paintings gathering dust on his shelf, mementos of a misspent sophomore year, leaving him with thousands of dollars in student loan debt and no degree to show for it.  

Ma had been so proud of him, the first man in the family to go to college.  She'd boasted about him to anyone who would listen---"My Steven, such an artist"---always so sure he was going to get his art degree and do something great with it.

In a way, maybe it was for the best that she couldn't see how he'd let himself abandon it all after the funeral, after Rumlow.  Once he'd had a plan, a clear vision for his future, and now he was aimlessly wandering, scraping by one day to the next at a job where nothing ever changed.  Endlessly taking notes for a story he never sat down to actually write felt like an escape hatch, a pit to bury himself in to avoid facing just how lost he really was.  He was right to ignore Hot Guy's offer.  He was broke, scraping by on ramen noodles every night, a scrawny asthmatic with a part-time teenager's job and a laundry list of health problems that even kept him away from the crummy hours he did get half the time.  He had nothing to offer anyone.

On impulse, he opened his Whisper and furiously typed out an anonymous confession.

_Sometimes I want to just jump in my car and drive off into the distance, until I disappear._

Seeing the words pulled out of his head and thrown up onscreen made him feel just a little bit lighter.

_Suck it up, Rogers.  Ma didn't raise you to throw pity parties for yourself._

He checked up on his Instagram and liked River the Miniature Dachshunds' latest pics.  He somehow managed to get sucked into a heated argument about Trump on a messageboard devoted to superheroes (though really, because he went looking for it).  Finally, he spent over an hour browsing through character portraits on Pinterest.

Finally, because he was sick of feeling like an apathetic blob of nothingness shut away in his room (what Clint called "the vampire cave"), he took Captain to go potty and picked up sticks and branches that the wind had blown around the backyard.

It was after two in the morning by the time a tousled head of straw-colored hair hit his pillow, trying to find the comfortable spot that would relieve his aching back enough to let him catch the sleep he was desperately chasing, and his last conscious thought was a fleeting flash of pouting lips and steel blue eyes.

 


	2. Dream a Little Bean of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve meets up with Natasha for Halloween brainstorming, but might get an unexpected surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yea, so I didn't completely like the first chapter and it didn't completely turn out the way I meant for it to, so I dunno if this is like, a slight attempt at a "soft reboot" (not a restart, definitely a continuation, just trying to recapture the lighter feel that kind of got away from me last time). I'm kinda just winging this one and seeing where it goes. I'd really welcome any feedback, constructive criticisms, etc., as I'm kind of making this up as I go along (though I do have specific ideas for some stuff).
> 
> Also I know little about baristas or coffee shops, or coffee in general, so have mercy on me.
> 
> Also, I take full responsibility for any possible mangled French that occurs. If anyone has a correction, feel free and I'll be happy to edit to make it more accurate.

Mid-October and already a snowstorm. Steve preferred the upswing of global warming.  The beginning of the week, he'd been driving to work in 60 degrees with the windows down---which suited him just fine, as the AC in his old Jeep hadn't worked in years---and suddenly Ohio had felt the need to abruptly transform itself into a winter wonderland (ick).

Clint had called off work that morning, as his rickety old pickup truck couldn't make it out the end of the driveway. Steve's Jeep had, in 4-wheel drive and with no small effort, but it had been a pretty dicey drive to work to then spend his entire shift going crazy with boredom and ringing out one customer every forty-five minutes. Although one old lady had been wearing a "Bernie 2016" campaign pin, and Steve had given her a high five like the total dork that he was. Finally getting off with the early evening already turning dark, he'd wanted nothing more than to swing through Starbuck's drive-thru and grab his hot chocolate and spend the rest of the evening curled up in the ratty living room chair with Captain, but of course, Natasha had chosen the Snowpocalypse as the perfect time for Halloween party planning.

 

_Dream Bean_

_15 minutes_

 

Ugh.  Leave it to the Russian to be totally unfazed by Ohio doing its best impression of  _The Day After Tomorrow._ And "The Dream Bean".  What kind of name was that?  Give him his Starbuck's drive-thru and his hot chocolate so he could go home, wrap himself up in blankets, and cuddle with his dog.

Fortunately, The Dream Bean wasn't hard to find.  It sat clustered with other tiny shops in a little plaza right on the other side of the mall from his store, probably just enough of a safe distance from the local Starbuck's to divide the mall's outflow of caffeine-powered holiday shoppers without being devoured by the corporate monster, and he realized he'd driven past any countless number of times without stopping to look.

Natasha's flashy little red Mini Cooper sat in the nearly-empty parking lot.  Technically, now that she was one of his managers, they weren't supposed to be "fraternizing" outside of work, but he and Nat had been fast friends since she helped his skinny ass up off the sidewalk of the local college campus years ago---after running smack into him and sending it there in the first place---and neither of them was willing to give it up for a policy no one really seemed that concerned with enforcing, against people and relationships that weren't harming anyone.  

Beanie pulled down snugly over his head and voluminous red scarf---knitted by Ma when he was still in high school---enveloping his neck, ratty gloves shoved into the pockets of the oversized peacoat---a gift from Clint after a vindictive ex-girlfriend deliberately shrunk it in the wash in a fit of "then no man shall!" pique---Steve kicked his way through a clump of snowdrift on his way to the doors.

From outside, The Dream Bean---complete with an image of a cartoon bean with eyes and a mouth making what was apparently supposed to a contently dreaming sleeping expression---didn't look like much, a tiny mom-and-pop sandwiched in between an equally tiny barbershop and a FedEx store, but once Steve tugged off his instantly fogging glasses upon being enveloped with glorious heat, the interior was actually surprisingly.....classy.  All vintage, old-school coffee shop style, with a mile-long counter and classic terrazzo floors.  The walls were stained mahogany, and the soft glow of lamplight gave a warm, cozy, inviting feel.  The furnishings appeared to be salvaged antique furniture, and Steve found himself caught up in examining them and recognizing the different architectural styles.  Old timey slow, smooth jazz wafted from the speaker system, and Steve's ears perked as the singer finally joined in and he recognized the sweet, clear voice of Kitty Kallen crooning "It's Been a Long Long Time".

There were three employees, a middle-aged man with a mustache, a younger black man he was animatedly chatting with in.....French?.....and a taller man with his back turned to the counter, wiping down the coffee machine, who looked to be wearing a vintage suit and of whom Steve could see nothing but slickered dark hair.  There weren't many customers---an elderly gentleman reading a newspaper by the soft glow of lamplight in a secluded corner, a couple of college kids sharing hot mocha---so it only took a quick glance to spot the redhead sitting in her green Earth Day jacket with her back turned, absently sipping a latte and reading "A Hero of Our Time", as if that was a perfectly normal thing to be doing in a coffee shop on a Monday evening.

"Heya," the small blond huffed out in greeting, unwrapping his thick scarf which suddenly felt suffocating in the warmth of the coffee shop, only to have the redhead slap her book down with dramatic gravity, eyeing him with pursed lips below the Raised Eyebrow of Doom.

"Steve," Natasha tutted, "Did you get lost in the snow and drive through a wormhole into an alternate universe where 15 minutes means a half hour?  I can only look rapturously absorbed in Lermontov for so long before it starts to get awkwardly obvious I'm waiting for someone."

"So?" Steve frowned, carefully taking off his peacoat---the most expensive article of clothing he owned---and settling it over the back of his chair.  

" _So_ ," Nat echoed, that little smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth as it did when she was enjoying their little banters, "No girl wants to look like she's getting stood up and is trying not to show it."

"I doubt many guys would stand you up," Steve answered earnestly, "And if they did, they'd be idiots."

"Well aren't you sweet," Nat answered, face lighting up, "If only you could be that smooth with someone you're actually interested in."

Steve flicked his eyes away in a flutter of irritation he always got when his friend tried to pry into his nonexistent love/sex life.  "I have bigger things I think about than that."

"Right," Nat smirked, leaning forward with her elbows on the counter, clearly not ready to let it go just yet, "I'd hate to see anything get in the way of your epic late night Pinterest marathons."

Steve fussed with the hearing aid in his left ear, making a show of pretending to check it was snug and secure to evade looking his friend in her all-too-knowing eyes.  Why couldn't she just let it go?

"I have my own life," he insisted, cringing a little inwardly at how empty his own words sounded, "I'm not afraid of being alone."

"I'm not  _afraid_ of being alone either, Rogers," Nat shot back a tad defensively, "I just.... _prefer_ to experience things with---"

"That's you, Nat.  That's not me."

Her smirk turned into a pensive tilt he hated to see aimed at him.  "Steve," she started in a softer voice, hand brushing over his on the table between them, "I know that after what happened with your mom, and then that dick Brock on top of it, that you've had your walls up.  And I get it, I do."  She sat back with a rueful sigh.  "I mean, you are talking to the woman who had an affair with her married doctor like a bad movie cliche and was stupid enough to think it was somehow gonna magically work itself out."

 

"We've all done stupid things for love, Nat," he tried to reassure her, leaning over the table to clasp her hand now, smiling softly when he felt her thumb brush over his knuckle in acknowledgment.  "It's all ancient history by now, anyway."

 

"I would just like to see you happy."

 

"Hell, Nat," he huffed, brushing away the blond bangs that had fallen into his eyes, "If I'd have known I was walking into a therapy session instead of Halloween brainstorming, I'd have grabbed a cup of coffee _before_ I came here."

 

"You're right," the redhead said, flashing an apologetic smile, "Go grab a coffee so we don't have look like loitering assholes, and then I've got some costume ideas."

Steve ambled over to the mile-long counter with a twinge of apprehension.  Last time Nat had "costume ideas", they involved a mortified Steve getting dragged into a Circle K at 2 in the morning wearing high heels, a slinky glittering black dress, and a bedazzled peacock mask, because drunk post-Halloween party Darcy got a sudden irresistible craving for a Polar Pop.

The small mustachioed man wearing a jaunty beret and fussily wiping down the counter glanced up at his approach.  His eyes lit up like Christmas, and he whipped around to his two companions.  " _Enfin, un client!_ "

It wasn't hard to pick out the word "client" and figure they were excited about somebody giving them something to do.  The younger dark-skinned man glanced up at Steve and frowned skeptically, then muttered, " _P_ _as plus d'un. Il est si petit , une demi-tasse lui remplir!_ "

It had been a few years since Steve's high school French classes, so he could only pick out the stray word here and there, but he caught " _petit_ " and that, coupled with the other man's uproarious laughter, made his ears heat and a scowl darken his face.  It wasn't that he wasn't long-accustomed to people mocking his size, but that didn't mean he felt he should have to take it from a couple of bored employees who, just because they were speaking another language, thought he was too stupid to figure out they were making fun of him.

"Guys, what'd I tell ya," the third man in the dark blue vintage suit gently admonished in a lazy drawl, slowly turning to face his co-workers and the mildly offended customer, "English at the counter.  And Gabe, c'mon....", but any complaint's Steve might have been thinking of making flew straight out of his head, because that _voice_ \---deep, smooth velvet, swirling around him like The Dream Bean's cozy warmth---and his mind was racing and--- _no way no way no way----_ and then the third man's eyes flicked up to his, and  _irresistible wide steel blue eyes and pouty lips_ , only now Hot Guy was dressed like a goddamned 1940s matinee idol, his previously messy dark hair slicked down and neatly parted to one side, dark blue vintage suit over matching vest over a white dress shirt and a tie that was ever-so-slightly crooked (and why was  _that_ hot?).

In the heavy silence hanging between them, the voice of Kitty Kallen suddenly sounded oppressively loud.  

" ** _Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again..._** "

In some faint lucid detached corner of his brain that was still processing information, Steve was vaguely aware of those baby blues bugging almost comically, as if Hot Guy was just as startled to see him, but he recovered faster, flashing a lopsided lazy smirk and drawling "Hiya, Steve," and  _he remembers my name._

His nametag read "James" and also announced him as a manager.  So at least he could be categorized in Brain of Steve under something a little more concise than "Hot Guy".  Though Brain of Steve wasn't working too well at the moment.

"Guys, I got this," he waved off his co-workers with a suave ease, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the counter, those intense blue eyes staring directly into Steve's, that Cheshire grin only broadening and  _damn_ if Steve wasn't suddenly acutely aware of how long it'd been since he'd gotten laid.  This guy was an inspiration.  God's gift to an artist.  He could carve that chin and those cheekbones out of marble like Michelanglo if he had a chisel.

He was also suddenly acutely aware of how he looked like a massive nerd right now, with his thick-framed, black-rimmed glasses and blond hair swept to one side, and the beanie still perched on his head, while the man opposite him would have had 1940s theater crowds of girls sighing and swooning at a wink and a smile, probably could have gotten into half of their pants even.....but somehow was inexplicably leering over the counter like the only pants he was interested in were right in front of him.

His face flushed at the dirty thoughts that Hot Guy---James.  Manager.  Manager James---was sending into his brain like some kind of Vulcan mind meld, and he suddenly stared very hard at the shining counter.

"Can I get ya somethin'?" James drawled with a low chuckle, seemingly finally deciding to take pity on him.   _After looking at me like he wanted to eat me alive._

Steve had never been the most imaginative person when it came to coffee.  The way he saw it, it served a strictly utilitarian purpose, to keep him from falling asleep standing up at his register.  Filter coffee for him, it was.  No americanos, no lattes.  Just plain black coffee.  That, and the other Ol' Reliable---

"Just a medium hot chocolate for here, thanks."

_There.  You spoke like a normal person, instead of a stammering anti-social dork.  And now James will have to get your order, and you'll pay, and you can go sit down.  You can escape._

Only, it seemed, James wasn't letting him off the hook that easy. 

"Awe, nononono," the taller man was sighing, shaking his head and laughing softly to himself while Steve stared in confusion, "Your first time in The Dream Bean, ya gotta live a little, Stevie.  'A medium hot chocolate'.  Not good enough."

_Stevie,_ his ears burned.  Who just called a random stranger something like that, the second chance encounter they'd ever had?  And why did it sound so easy, so casual and natural, rolling off James' tongue?  Why did it sound like they were already friends, somehow?

"I thought the customer was always supposed to be right," he shot back, and James just leveled an unimpressed eyebrow at him.  

"You gotta stop disappointin' me, Steve," James tutted.  "Us brothers in the service shouldn't bullshit each other."

"Okay, okay," Steve conceded defeat, chuckling a little despite himself, "So what do you recommend, then?"

James shrugged casually, as if it were all up to Steve after all.  "Watcha in the mood for?"

"Well, I  _was_ in the mood for a hot chocolate, but...."

"Ahhhh, see there ya go again," James protested, throwing his hands up in the air with mock exasperation that might have been aggravating, if not for the somehow infectious shit-eating grin he was sporting, "I keep leavin' the door wide open but you're like a deer in headlights."  His eyes traveled down to Steve's T-shirt and he raised an eyebrow.  "I'd have thought someone sophisticated enough to recognize the brilliance of Tim Burton's seminal classic would be a little more adventurous."

"Common misconception," Steve pointed with a small surge of satisfaction.  "Henry Selick directed  _Nightmare Before Christmas._ Burton just produced."

"Oh c'mon, semantics," James shot back with a childish finger wag, "Burton wrote it as a poem in  _1982_.  It's totally his baby.  It has his fingerprints all over it.  It's even credited as 'Tim Burton's  _The Nightmare Before Christmas_."

"Marketing purposes," Steve shot back.

"Oh my G---okay, fine," James shot up his hands again, as if he  _could not even_ , "The point stands, Steve-O.  Someone who appreciates Mr. Skellington should be a little more unconventional.  We Burtonites need to stick together."

Steve vaguely waved a hand down at himself.  "And here I thought I was a poster boy for unconventional."

James made a face.  "Actually, I think you're a poster boy for  _hipster chic_."

Steve raised a faintly challenging eyebrow.  "You seemed a pretty good poster boy for it yourself last time, before you got made-over into Clark Gable."

For a moment, James beamed at him, as if delighted by the reference, though whether it was because he considered Clark Gable the height of male attractiveness, or whether Steve had finally managed to meet with his satisfaction by naming a period actor, he couldn't be sure.

"Yea, well," the taller man dismissed airily with a vague wave of one hand, "Peggy---that's the owner---wanted to have an  _ambiance._ _People must see The Dream Bean as a refuge, James!_ " he suddenly cried dramatically in a too-good prim English accent that sent Steve into a giggling fit, "They must feel  _transported!_ "  He leaned far over the counter again, sharing a conspiratorial wink, as if confiding company secrets.  "This is just my  _work camouflage._ "

"Pretty good camouflage."

"Yea, well, that's me.  Bucky Barnes, master of disguise."

Steve cocked his head, frowning.  "Bucky?"

"Oh jeez," James sighed, rolling his eyes indulgently with the long-suffering air of someone who's had to explain this many times before.  "Middle name's Buchanan.  People have called me 'Bucky' since I was a kid, so it always just kind of stuck.  I'm used to it.  Honestly, I think of it as my name more than 'James'," he admitted with a scrunched face of disgust.

"It suits you," Steve mused thoughtfully, looking the other man up and down.  "Bucky.  Like a puppy."

James---Bucky---made an incredulous face, then burst out laughing, a bright and cheery sound that Steve wouldn't mind causing again.  "You sayin' I'm like a puppy?"  
  


"Kind of," the smaller man pondered.  "All excitable.  That's the great thing with dogs, they just dive in with all their enthusiasm in everything they do."

Bucky leaned in close, hunkering down and eyeing Steve up through his eyelashes.  "You sayin' you wanna pet me, Stevie?"

Steve's eyes bulged, and he was vaguely aware of some unintelligible "uhhhh" noise coming out of himself, even as Bucky was suddenly straightening up, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck and suddenly looking almost shy, as if he knew he'd overstepped.

"So, uh," the other man said, and Steve hadn't imagined his sudden nervousness, "As skillful as you are at obfuscation, you never did order anything."

"Oh!" Steve said, too brightly, massive relief flooding through him at Bucky giving him something to latch onto, a neutral topic with Answer A, B, or C.  Except now he was squinting up at the menu, and finding it bewilderingly complicated.  He'd never really realized there were that many flavors of coffee.

And they were all obviously currently tailored for Halloween.   _Spooky Spice.  Vampire Vanilla.  Witches Brew.  Decaf Monster Mash._ Who came up with these names?

_Probably the same person who names their coffee shop 'The Dream Bean' , complete with a cartoon bean._

"I've, uh, never actually tried any of these..."

Bucky rolled his eyes.  "That's the point, Steve."

"Uh....I've had the pumpkin spice latte at Starbuck's once."   _Because Darcy shoved it into your hand._

"Ew," Bucky looked disgusted all over again.  "Starbuck's is shit, Steve.  All sweet and artificial.  Puree pumpkin is so much better.  Don't be a slave to mass consumerism, young Padawan."

Caught in the slightly heady mix of annoyance and entertainment that he'd been in since he stepped up to the counter, Steve squared his scrawny shoulders as much as he could manage, raised his chin haughtily, and said "Fine.  Show me what I'm missing.  Win me over, Buck."

Bucky's eyes widened a fraction at the nickname rolling off Steve's tongue, then he smirked and turned to the coffee machine, its efficient whirring almost masking a muttered something that sounded suspiciously like " _I'd like to win you over_ ".

Seemingly in the work of a moment, Bucky was shoving a plastic cup at him.  "Prepare to have your life changed forever," he solemnly intoned like an over-dramatic narrator.

Steve sniffed experimentally, and caught the fresh waft of a pumpkin pie straight out of the oven, like Ma used to make on occasion.  Bucky was staring at him fixedly, those big blue eyes so intense, anticipating his reaction.

When the taste hit his lips, Steve moaned out loud almost indecently, his senses flooded with a rich and creamy brew of cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, brown sugar, vanilla, none of the bitterness of what he'd always thought of as coffee.  Like drinking a pumpkin pie out of a cup.

"That good, huh," Bucky asked, and Steve swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat at how his obscene moan had darkened the manager's eyes.

"That....that's coffee?" Steve asked, sounding a little breathless.

Bucky just threw back his head and laughed.  "Well-done, Luke," he intoned in a passable imitation of Obi-Wan Kenobi, "You've taken your first step into a larger world."

"Hey," Natasha was suddenly speaking up at his shoulder, "Tony wants us to swing over to the costume store in five.  I guess him and Darcy are meeting us there."

"Got it," Steve answered automatically, half-turned to face her, when he felt a light tap at his shoulder.

"Hey, listen," Bucky was murmuring, one eye on Natasha, who was returning to the table, "I'm sorry about....before."

Steve's brow furrowed, unsure, and Bucky clarified, "The, uh....the nametag thing.  I'm sorry if I was coming on strong, and thinking about it after, you were at work and it was wrong of me, and I just tend to go full steam ahead when I'm interested and I'm sorry if I made you---"

"Interested?"  Great.   _Thanks, Brain of Steve, for zeroing on one word in that whole rambling apology and lighting it up like a neon sign.  Kudos._

"Well yea," Bucky admitted unabashedly, some of his smirk returning, "But I thought I kinda freaked you out, and maybe....you didn't want it."

The blood was rushing into Steve's head again.  It was almost like an out of body experience, where he could visualize himself, teetering on the precipice.  He could let himself fall forward into the unknown, or pull back onto the ledge where it was safe.  Where his feet were on solid ground.

He didn't know what choice to make.  So, in the end, he didn't make one at all.

After an uncomfortable stretch of awkward staring, Bucky seemed to come to a conclusion on his own.  The taller man pulled back with a faint nod, flashing a smile that looked a little pained and maybe a little embarrassed.  

"Thanks, uh, thanks for the coffee," Steve stammered, trying to find something reassuring to say as he swiped his card, something that would make Bucky laugh again.   _You don't want me.  You deserve someone fun like you._

For a second, his inner monologue sounded uncomfortably like the cold, sneering voice of Brock Rumlow.  Brock had seemed charming too, once upon a time.  Or had he?  Maybe it was all mixed up in hazy memory and Steve couldn't remember it right anymore.

"You'd better go meet your friends," Bucky said, his voice a fraction more aloof than it'd been the whole time they'd been talking.  "See ya around, Steve."

Steve shifted his weight for a moment, the terrazzo floor suddenly intensely fascinating.  "See ya around, Buck."

He shuffled out the door behind Natasha with the palpable sensation of shutting a door of opportunity behind him.  He didn't want to listen to it.

Bucky's eyes followed him all the way out.  

 

**To be continued**

 

****_**note:**_ ****When Steve stepped up to the counter, Dernier said "Finally, a customer", and Gabe said "Not much of one, half a cup would fill him up".  Any grammatical or language errors are mine.

 

 


	3. Off to see the Wizard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Costume store shenanigans. Gratuitous awkwardly shoehorned cameos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know. This seemed kind of lame, but I worked on it and didn't know what else to do with it, so.....here it is.

"I'm just saying, I think it's a simple fact that I am most qualified out of this motley crew to play the Wizard of Oz.  Ya know, genius?  Inventor?  Morally questionable con man?  Sounds like me, right?"

Pepper Potts smiled the long-suffering, indulgent smile of someone who has long ago made peace with the fact that she chose her own fate, and planted a light peck to Tony's breathlessly rambling lips.  "If we're  _really_ being accurate,  _dear_ , you should play Tin Man."

"Right, 'cause the, no....heart  _thing_ ".  Tony's eye roll was obvious even behind the purple-tinted shades of his Italian aviator designer sunglasses he was still wearing around the costume store, part hipster, part dude-bro, dramatically tossing back his head and heaving a put-upon sigh.  "Love you too, honey!" he singsonged, wiggling his fingers at Pepper as she escaped into another section with Natasha, the statuesque light strawberry blond arm-in-arm with the smaller redhead, flashing a wink over her shoulder.

"Don't even wanna know what world domination scheme those two are gonna cook up when we're not looking," Tony stage-whispered to Steve with barely a pause for breath.  "'Girl Power' doesn't even begin to cover .....eyyyy, lookie _here!_ "  Steve flinched at the bedazzled masquerade bird mask shoved so abruptly into his face it almost clanked into his glasses, "This looks familiar."

" _No_ ," Steve huffed, cringing away from the hideous thing, mildly traumatic memories of being dragged into Circle K in drag at two in the morning last year because Darcy wanted a Polar Pop raising the color in his cheeks.

"Oh c'mon, Steveroo," Tony chortled, still animatedly waving it around as he was talking, absently plucking a costume bra---complete, to Steve's horror, with built-in Styrofoam breasts---off the rack.  "You could use these, ya know.  You're like a landing strip down there."

"You are not giving me boobs," Steve protested, wondering for the millionth time why he was friends---if that's what you'd even call it---with Tony Stark.  The man had a way of just sucking people, willingly or not, into his orbit, ever since returning from MIT---where he'd graduated top of his class, of course, because Tony Stark was not only incredibly obnoxious, but actually a genius to top it off, and knew it too---to waste no time throwing raucous parties straight out of  _The Great Gatsby_ in the historical mansion he'd inherited from his parents.  The scion of the city's founding family wasn't someone whose social circle Steve ever expected to find himself in, but for a PetSmart assistant manager in an uneventful little corner of northeast Ohio, Natasha seemed to have mysterious connections with people from all walks of life.  Steve half-suspected Tony might be on to something when the man insisted she was an international Russian spy, using PetSmart as cover.

"Not that I'd mind---" Tony glanced around nervously, scratching at his neatly trimmed goatee thoughtfully, "---getting, uh, deep _under covers_ , with Agent Romanov, if ya know what I mean...."

"Tony," Steve scolded sharply, the other man immediately throwing up his hands looking the picture of wounded innocence.

"Hey, I have been  _very_ well-behaved by my standards.  Finally talked Pepper into moving in with me, doing the whole codependent thing, and to my total shock, I'm actually happy-ish.  Just 'cause I can't order off the menu anymore doesn't mean I can't read it..."

"Just make sure that's all you're doing," the tiny blond went on scoldingly.

"Yes, Mom," Tony singsonged sarcastically.  "You need to get yourself laid, Rogers.  This Puritan shtick's making you boring."

"I'm not a Puritan," Steve snapped, absently running his fingers across the rubbery masks lining the crowded aisle, "I just..."

"Live with a crippling, pathological fear of one of life's few legitimately sublime pleasures?" Tony supplied helpfully.

Steve glanced into the man's smirking eyes faintly visible behind those damn Bono shades, and let out a ragged sigh.  "You wouldn't understand."

"Okay, it understandably might be hard to tell, laced with biting sarcasm and peerless wit as I am, but I _am_ actually trying to be sympathetic here.   _Me_ , Steve.  Do you realize how wildly out-of-character you're forcing me to be here?  The space-time continuum is gonna rip itself wide open at any second.  Your sad-sack moping around a Halloween store like you're at your dog's funeral is killing my buzz."

"I'm sorry," Steve sighed, tugging off his glasses and running a hand through his unruly blond locks, "I guess I'm just not very fun company."

"Not with that defeatist attitude, you're not," Tony huffed with a disgruntled sigh, "You're in a funk, Steveroo.  And I'm gonna find a way to getcha out of it."

Steve pinched his nose to ward off the threatening shadow of a migraine on the horizon at the edge of his vision.  Tony's ideas of "helping" could range from inadvertently humiliating to downright dangerous.  He was surprised the man hadn't blown up his basement laboratory yet (just the shed in his backyard....and part of his fence....and his porch...).  

The chime of the costume store's bell and a sudden cacophony of raucous raised voices turned their attention to the door, where Darcy was pouring in at the head of a small entourage including their new co-worker Peter Parker and two other boys Steve didn't know.  All four greeted them loudly, all talking at once, Parker sharing earbuds with Darcy but in the middle of breathlessly rambling about  _The Empire Strikes Back._

" _Old,_ " Darcy dismissed with a scrunchy face.

"It's not  _that_ old!" Parker was protesting indignantly.  It vaguely occurred to Steve this was the first time he'd seen the boy outside his work clothes.  He was wearing a dark blue sweater emblazoned with the atomic symbol, and  _where did he get that thing?_

"I like  _Return of the Jedi_ ," the tall boy with glasses on Parker's other side chimed in with a noncommittal shrug.

"But," Parker sputtered, "The ice planet.....with the walker thingies!"

"The Walkers' design is inherently unstable," the tall boy with glasses went on in professorial tones, "Plus they have a blind spot in excess of 300 degrees!"

"I can accept a _little_ Handwavium," Parker admitted, "They're giant battle robots!  How is that not still awesome?"

"When I'm distracted the whole time thinking the Empire should have fallen decades earlier if those are the limits of its weapons design capabilities..."

"Says the man who likes  _Jurassic Park_ ," Parker shot back, "AKA the most scientifically inaccurate movie _ever_ , dinosaurs aren't even related to frogs, splicing two DNA strands of radically different species wouldn't give you a dinosaur, it'd give you some mutant Dinofrog thingie..."

Somehow all Parker's flailing around hadn't dislodged the earbud split between he and Darcy, and Steve smiled at the sight.  When they first started working together, Darcy was happy to discover Steve was more a starving artist hipster as opposed to a music snob hipster.  It meant she could share all kinds of music recommendations with him without fear of judgment, and so Steve regularly got bombarded with everything from Michael Jackson to Nicki Minaj.  Steve wasn't always blown away by her suggestions, but he never passed up an opportunity to share his headphones with her, and now she'd obviously snagged Parker.

"Hi, Mister Rogers!" Parker greeted, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed like always.  Steve suddenly felt old, even though the kid was eighteen, and then he realized he was almost ten years older than Parker, and  _wow, now he felt old..._

"Oh God, don't call me that," Steve waved away, "I don't even own a cardigan."

"You should," Darcy chirped perkily around a gum bubble, purple beanie resting on her head, "You'd make a hot children's show host."

Steve eyed his co-worker dubiously.  "Thanks....I think?"  
  
"Duh, totally," Darcy eye-rolled.  "Face it, Steve, you're like the most wholesome one of us by a mile."

"She's not wrong," Tony joined in at his shoulder, before scurrying off to track down his girlfriend.

"Oops, sorry guys," Darcy waved an encompassing hand around at the other two young men standing awkwardly behind her, "Steve, Hank.  Hank, Steve!  Steve, Kurt.  Kurt...Steve!"

The very tall, slender young man with shiny metal square eyeglasses and looking distinctly old-fashioned in a denim jacket and orange patterned shirt bent down a little to clasp Steve's proffered hand in a surprisingly firm handshake.  "Hank McCoy, I'm Pete's, uh....college roommate."

Steve cocked his head slightly at the hesitation, but then the other man, small and slight, with an emo swoop of blue-streaked hair swept over one side of his long, narrow face and a large crucifix hanging around his neck, flashed a shy grin.  "Kurt Wagner," he greeted, saying it like "Vahgnur".

"Kurt's from Germany, hanging out with my folks for the school year.  The responsibility has fallen to me to give him the American Shopping Mall Experience," Darcy explained gravely.

Off to the side, Pete and Hank were still going at it.  A slow, tentative smile was building on Hank's face, an emotion Steve couldn't quite place blooming as he gazed down fondly at the smaller boy gesticulating animatedly, finally coming to the end of a breathless diatribe about DNA decay rates. 

"Movie nights are gonna be hard for us, aren't they?" the taller boy suddenly asked.

"Only if you don't shut up for two seconds," Parker shot back, drawing himself up challengingly, and for a second he reminded Steve of.....himself?

"I might be open to persuasion," Hank admitted grudgingly.  A quick glance around of bright blue eyes behind his shiny square glasses, and then he swiftly dipped down and pecked a chaste kiss to the smaller boy's lips.

Parker's was the one who shut up, grinning like he was watching a puppy playing in leaves, and Steve had to look away, Darcy's squeal of delight ringing in his ears, because he hadn't realized right up to that moment how he missed someone looking at him like that.

Brock would never have kissed him in the middle of a store, though, he remembered objectively enough to know that much.  

Darcy's gang, all chattering away raucously among themselves, about everything and nothing....it seemed to him like some impenetrable mystery.  Did Tony and Pepper prattle on mindlessly, with it not really mattering what they were saying, as long as they were saying it to each other?

He could count on one hand with fingers left over the people in his life he could talk to without feeling like making small talk was a monumental effort.  Natasha, Darcy....and Bucky.

He realized with a start that he and the barista had fallen into an easy conversation, geeking out about Tim Burton and coffee flavors like they'd been friends for years, instead of sharing two chance encounters.  He couldn't remember the last time he'd spoken so easily to a stranger.  

It had made him feel.....lighter.

Pete and Hank were drifting aimlessly down the aisles now, fingers brushing lightly together in a way that could have almost been accidental.

It'd been so long since he'd been just  _touched_ by someone in a way that didn't involve hugs from Natasha and Darcy or bro back-slaps from Clint or Jim.  

Not that Brock had been into hand-holding.  Or any public displays of affection that might have tipped anyone off that the muscular jock wasn't quite as straight as they thought he was.

_\----"We were just fooling around, Steve.  I'm not a_ fag"----

"Hey!  Mr. Deep In Thought!" Darcy was suddenly in his face, poking a finger into his furrowed brow.  "We're supposed to be having fun.  Join the living.  We have candy."

He did have fun, after Natasha reappeared, beamingly carrying a pointy black witch's hat and broomstick and she and Darcy linked each of his arms with one of theirs and swept him along between them, Darcy loudly humming "We're off to see The Wizard".  Darcy stuck her free earbud in his good ear so he could hear the song, and it took him back to the drive-thru that sometimes played the old classics, and Ma had taken him there whenever she could---which wasn't often, not with her hours at the hospital, but she'd tried---and he'd marveled every time as Dorothy stepped out the door and the drab black-and-white was swept away in a blaze of color, like splashing paint across a blank canvas.

He just wished he could find something to _inspire_ him like that again.

 

*** * ***

"So, any more trips to the Dream Bean?" Natasha asked in a quick aside, her all-too-knowing eyes smiling out at him from the Wicked Witch's green facepaint.

"He doesn't wanna see me again," Steve huffed, shirking off his khakis and preparing to do battle with his costume.

Nat raised a very Nat skeptical eyebrow.  "All I know is, it looked like the two of you were having quite the interlude before I inadvertently cock-blocked you to drag you to put up with Tony and Darcy."

"We were just making chit-chat," Steve protested, feeling his face warming in a way that had nothing to do with the warmth of the apartment after the cold of outdoors.

"Because you do that so easily," Nat sighed.  "Give yourself a chance, Steve."

"It's not giving _myself_ chances that's the problem...."  
  


"Isn't it?" she asked slyly, and  _wasn't Pepper supposed to be the psychiatrist?_

 

"I'll work on it," he huffed, pulling the legs up, and ignoring the way Nat still looked thoughtful.

 

*** * ***

 

"I still don't get why I have to be Scarecrow," Steve groused, awkwardly shuffling into his costume, the straw Darcy had stuffed the hat with falling down in front of his face.

 

"Oh quitcher bitchin',  _Stove,_ " Darcy psshed, slipping into the pair of slim red gloves she'd fallen in love with---any protests that Dorothy actually didn't wear anything of the sort in the movie falling on deaf ears---and adjusting the wig so her pigtails were hanging evenly.  "You're the perfect size, you could totally pass for a scarecrow, plus you're the only blond guy here, so the straw blends with your hair.  And Tony's already playing the Wizard, Pepper's Glinda, and Nat's the Wicked Witch, and if you don't think all those are perfect casting..."

"Is this 'perfect casting' talk s'posed to explain why I got cast as the Cowardly Lion?" Clint huffed from beside Steve, flicking idly at the whiskers the girls had glued to his face minutes before, Pepper---looking regal and radiant of course as Glinda the Good Witch---smacking his hand away before he tugged any of them loose.  "Cause if it is, I resent that."

"Our gang has a sad shortage of testosterone, and Hank and Pete are already doing their sickeningly adorable Batman and Robin thing, and Kurt is Skyping with his family and being all anti-social..."

"The German kid stays home after you try to get him to dress up as Hitler.  Huh.  Weird," Tony commented absently from where he was fiddling with his bowtie.

"He's an actual authentic German, plus he's totally got the hair for it, it was too good an opportunity to let pass..."

"Yea....I think the whole 'Hitler' thing is a slightly touchy subject for Germans, Darcy..."

"Guys, I don't think my costume is working out, I keep looking in the mirror and seeing Dad, not the Wonderful Wizard of Oz..."

"Is there a difference?"

" _Touché._ Hey, ya know, shady two-bit trickster swindling people into thinking he's a genius, I guess I see the resemblance..."

" _Tony._ "

"Hey, you were the casting director, hun.  Though now I'm starting to think you set this up as some Freudian therapeutic exercise...."  
  


"Just because I'm a psychiatrist doesn't mean I'm  _your_ psychiatrist."

 

"Too much work, amirite?"

 

Steve let his friends' banter wash over him in a pleasantly enveloping cloud as they drifted out into the courtyard, looking like the bunch of dorks that they were, toward Tony's SUV, clutching at their costumes as the bitter wind kicked up around them, Pepper pulling up the rear in her voluminous dress and makeshift paper mache towering crown and frowning at her phone. 

"Still waiting on your friend?" Nat piped up, linking an arm with Pepper and unabashedly snooping on her text messages.

"I told him we were leaving, if he misses us here I told him where to meet us...."

As if on cue, the slam of a car door from the visitor's parking section across the courtyard sent heads swiveling to where a man in a long coat and the biggest top hat Steve had ever seen was hurrying toward them.

"James!" Pepper called out in a mix of cheer and annoyance.  "I said  _Wizard of Oz,_ not  _Alice in Wonderland_."

 

"Meh," James waved away with an elegant shrug, "I figured you guys would already be all dressed up, and I didn't feel like being Tin Man, did you know the greasepaint they put on Jack Haley gave him cancer?!   _Cancer,_ Peps.  And that poor bastard only got cast after it gave Buddy Ebsen an almost fatal allergic reaction, seriously, I could be laying dead on the floor in my living room right now..."  
  


"Because it's totally 1939 and we still dress people up in _aluminum dust_ ," Pepper shot back wryly, but Steve wasn't listening anymore, because Bucky Goddamned Barnes was standing in front of him, somehow, again, and apparently he really was a master of disguise, because now he was dressed to the nines as some modern, hipster Mad Hatter, complete with a long black leather coat and a ginormous black felt dress hat, and a cravat, and a flocked satin shirt and  _where did he get this shit_ and then Bucky flashed a surprisingly shy smile in his direction, like he'd known he'd be here this time, and  _Jesus, was that eyeliner?_

Steve's mouth was the Sahara right now, and it didn't help anything when he noticed Bucky was still wearing those damn skinny pants and heavy boots.

"So, um," Bucky clapped gloved hands together, biting his bottom lip in a sinful way, and glancing around at pretty much everyone except Steve.  "Ready to take on the town?"

 

"Pile in," Tony yelled, hauling into the driver's seat of his SUV, Pepper drawing her dress around herself as she climbed in beside him and somehow still managing to look elegant about it.

 

Steve glanced around in dismay for Natasha, and then saw her  _smirking,_ her eyes none-too-subtly darting between him and Hatter!Bucky.

 

Oh.  Well.   _Wicked Witch_ alright.

 

"How?" he babbled helplessly as everyone drifted perilously closer to the crowded confines of the SUV, from which there would be no escape for at least a good twenty minutes.  Twenty minutes with Bucky Barnes in hot pants and wearing a  _cravat and flocked satin shirt and fucking eyeliner._

 

 

"He's friends with Pepper from college," Nat explained nonchalantly, hauling her black cloak in one door and then snapping a finger when he went to follow.  "Uh-uh.  My bitchin' costume is  _not_ getting smushed between two guys.  James, get in on the other side.  Steve, you're small, you'll have to sit between us."  Her voice was casual as could be, but the twinkle in her eyes was downright devious.

 

To his credit, Bucky at least looked somewhat apologetic for Steve's sake.  Though he apparently couldn't resist sweeping off his top hat and bestowing Steve with an elegant bow, like he was some Victorian maiden he was helping into her carriage.

 

Steve jabbed him in the ribs---he knew from past complaints from Natasha and Darcy how sharp his elbows were---and Bucky let out a huff of half-pain half-amusement.

 

The doors swung shut, Steve sandwiched in like a sardine between a very smug Natasha and a somewhat-also-smug-while-trying-and-failing-to-hide-it Bucky Barnes.  

  
Dressed as a Mad Hatter who was way more fuckable than Steve had ever imagined the character could be, watching the cartoon on Ma's lap.

 

"Buckle up.  It's the law," Bucky deadpanned, too close to his ear, trying to sound serious but with a note of glee bubbling underneath.

 

Natasha just smiled out the window.

 

This was going to be a long ride.

 

 

 


	4. This Is Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween party, Steve being a scrappy spitfire, and maybe just maybe he and Bucky actually getting to know each other a little better.

The thing is, Steve had never really  _liked_ clubbing.  

He likes spending time with his small circle of friends, sure---even though Clint and Jim never fail to remind him that he's a real homebody who'd really rather enjoy a quiet evening in cuddling with Captain in his ratty old chair and watching  _Mythbusters_ \---last episode they'd tested Walter White's oscillating machinegun car trunk booby trap from  _Breaking Bad_ \---and practically had to be dragged out the door sometimes to go anywhere besides work and occasional reluctant spurts of grocery shopping.

He especially doesn't really enjoy going out to nightclubs, where the pulsing throb of the music would be half-deafening to a normal person, let alone a guy with a hearing aid shoved into one ear that's mostly useless anyway, meaning he's even more unlikely to hear someone trying to chat him up---not that a scrawny twig like him exactly gets them lining up anyway---and its easy for a small guy like him to feel a little overwhelmed in an enveloping crush of hot sweaty bodies from all directions, people grinding on complete strangers without exchanging first names and everyone just looking for a good time, and that's not exactly the kind of "good time" he's ever been interested in.

See, Steve deep down is what Darcy sighingly calls "a hopeless romantic".  

Okay, so maybe he's not a monk, but he could count his sexual partners on one hand and still have fingers left over, and he'd really rather just grab a cup of coffee with someone and enjoy a nice, quiet conversation than pole-vault straight over basic human communication into trying to get into each other's pants as quickly as possible.

Darcy told him he should have been around in the 1930s, saying girls would have swooned for a "gentleman" like him.  Steve didn't bother pointing out the obvious that A) he wasn't exactly interested in making girls swoon, and B) the 1930s weren't exactly the friendliest of times for the LGBT community, or even just a guy with his laundry list of health problems.

And that wasn't getting into women being treated right, and segregation, and Japanese-Americans in internment camps, and the Bonus March, and all kinds of stuff that would get his blood boiling if he stopped to think about it long enough, even if it'd all happened when his oldest grandparents were children.

Steve didn't like social injustice, okay?  Sue him if he'd rather march in a protest against police arresting homeless people who didn't have anywhere to go, than catch up on the latest episode of  _Keeping Up with the Kardashians._

So maybe he was a little old-fashioned.  And maybe he also simultaneously managed to be an Occupy Wall Street hipster.  And maybe---gasp, shock---he actually wanted to  _talk_ to another human being before getting on his knees or bending over the nearest surface or the other stuff Brock had made him do whenever he felt like it.

Well, maybe that was a little unfair.  Brock hadn't exactly  _made him_ do anything, but the dick also hadn't made him feel like there was a whole lot of room for argument.

He shook himself.  Surrounded by dozens of bodies under the flash of the strobe lights---he was just thankful epilepsy wasn't on his list---rocking to the pulse of a beat he could feel in his gut---and here he was lost in his own head again.

"Hey you," Nat singsonged in his peripheral vision, the tiny blond shifting on his bar stool to face her, smirking face covered in green greasepaint.  The redhead never got "stupid drunk", at least not as far as he'd ever seen, never enough to abandon her unflappable self-control---something that could decidedly not be said for Tony, who at last sighting was dancing frenetically in a corner, partly with Pepper, mostly with himself---but she got... _brighter_ , that mischievous sparkle in her eyes igniting from glowing embers into something a little more heated, sparking off the fire dancing in her hair, her smile less guarded, more carefree.  Steve liked seeing her this way.

"I'm fine, you guys go have fun," he insisted, raising his voice to be heard over the relentless sledgehammer of the music, nodding over to where Darcy was sandwiched in between Pete and Hank and the three of them were doing some hilariously uncoordinated, drunken version of The Bump.  They were all out of sync, missing each other's hips on every other try, but they seemed to be having a lot of fun anyway.  Steve found himself smiling softly.

"Awe, there it is," Natasha crowed in his good ear, grabbing his hand and tugging him off his bar stool.  "C'mon, you gotta learn to live a little, Rogers."

"Come on, Nat, you know I don't dance," he tried to protest, but the redhead just shoved a small plastic cup into his hand, leaving him squinting suspiciously at the discolored liquid inside.

"It's a strawberry daiquiri," Natasha explained with an eye-roll, "Not Vodka."

Steve gave her a dubious look.  To a guy a couple inches over five feet and not much over a hundred pounds, it might as well be Vodka, and they both knew it.

Natasha just stared him down, eyebrows raised challengingly, somehow still manging to look stern and intimidating even while dressed like The Wicked Witch of the West, complete with a broom she'd snatched from her apartment on her way out the door and was carrying around ("helps fight off the perverts", she'd explained with a wink, as if she'd ever needed help with that.  Steve still remembered her once flipping a guy onto his stomach halfway over the counter with the hand that had been on her hip now twisted behind his back, while sweetly explaining that they reserved the right to refuse service to anyone.)

"Oh, fine," he sighed and downed it in one shot.

" _Woooooo!_ " Nat crowed, clapping her hands, and across the mess of tangling bodies, somehow Darcy made herself heard with hands raised to the ceiling and a cry of " _Go Stevieeeeeee!!_ "

Steve could almost feel the alcohol flowing through him, in a way that would have almost been embarrassing.  He wasn't a stranger to alcohol, but every time it hit him like he was a high schooler trying it for the first time while his parents were out of the house.  The room seemed to flow around him.  He felt.... _light._ Almost weightless, as his best girls each grabbed one slim wrist and pulled him out onto the dance floor.

Ten feet over, Clint glanced his way from where he was doing the bump and grind with some redhead.  His roommate swept his eyes over the scene and flashed him a bro grin and a cheesy thumbs up.

Steve really didn't know what he was doing on a dance floor; he had a hopeless lack of natural rhythm, and even a light collision with a larger body almost sent him sprawling without Darcy and Natasha's steadying hands---the latter giving the rude dancer a taste of his own medicine with a well-placed elbow jab to a strategic area---but this wasn't so bad.  Sandwiched in between Nat and Darce, he could just kind of get lost in it, let himself sway to the beat.  It was almost kind of....nice.

His eyes drifted lazily back toward the bar, and....

_Oh._

Bucky's eyes, ringed with smoky makeup, stared intensely back at him.  He'd swept off his top hat at some point, his hair still elegantly coiffed and piled high, and he'd draped his leather coat over his chair, putting his cravat and flocked satin shirt on full display, looking like a dandy at a Victorian ball transplanted into a techno dance club yet somehow still managing to look as though he belonged there.

It was a wonderfully incongruous scene, and Steve wished he could sketch it.

_Bucky Barnes.  Master of disguise._

The taller man didn't seem to be paying attention to anyone around him, even though now that he was looking, Steve noticed a girl perched on a stool beside him, looking him up and down with less-than-subtle interest, but Bucky....

Bucky only seemed to have eyes for Steve.

The blond gazed back, for a moment the whole swinging club seeming to slow down and blur around them.  Watching Bucky.  Watching Bucky watching him.

It had to be the alcohol blurring his perception.  Bucky could have any man or woman here he wanted.  Why the hell was he staring at Steve like that?  Guys like Bucky didn't look at guys like Steve that way.  Only Rumlow had, and that had only been because he'd sized him up as someone lonely and desperate enough to be his little plaything.

A slow, lazy smile curved Bucky's pouty lips.  Slowly, gracefully, he pushed away from the bar counter and started to step toward them, lightly brushing past the pretty black girl on his other side, who turned to glance at his passing...

...as the creep she was sitting with.....slipped something into her cup?

_The hell?_

The guy---a big jock type, not so different from Rumlow---glanced his way with cold, remote eyes below receding dark hair slicked neatly to the side.  His eyes turned colder---a warning---and then he turned back to the girl, one hand resting lightly but possessively across the back of her stool...

" _Steve....?_ " The blond lightly registered someone, a woman---Natasha or Darcy, he couldn't be sure---saying his name in confusion and maybe a hint of alarm behind him, but he strode purposefully through the crowd without breaking step, pushing and elbowing through dancing couples, politeness forgotten, making a beeline for that poor girl and the asshole she'd had the bad luck to be sitting with.

At the bar counter, Bucky had paused, though, brow furrowing in confusion at the stormy expression on Steve's face, gaze slowly drifting toward the guy Steve was practically charging for.

A guy a hell of a lot bigger than Steve.

When Steve's slender hand landed hard on the creep's shoulder, the guy turned with a start, eyes wide then narrowing into that cold glare.  "Gotta problem, shrimp?"

"What did you put in her drink?" Steve demanded, his furious voice easily carrying over the music, the girl startling now, glancing wide-eyed between the two men.

"Why don't you mind your own business?" the guy asked, rising up out of his chair now, looming over Steve like someone who knew he was big and knew how to use it to intimidate people.

Steve didn't give a shit.

" _I said_ ," he shouted in the creep's face, voice loud even to him now, even above the din of the club and the buzzing in his faulty hearing aid, " _What did you put in her drink?  Are you so fucking pathetic you can't get laid without taking advantage of people?!_ "

Other people were looking now, craning their necks and murmuring among themselves, and the guy's confusion clouded over to a storm as dark as Steve's.  Steve saw the fist coming, ducked under, and smacked his own fist, far smaller and with far less power behind it, into the guy's ribs.

See, thing is, contrary to what some people think, Steve knows he isn't strong, or big.  He does not, as Darcy thinks, picture himself as a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier.  But you don't get beaten up in every alleyway in a twenty mile radius from kindergarten to college without picking up a few tricks.  He knows he can't drop this guy with a shot to the face.  But he knows his small size makes him a harder target.  He knows how to tuck and duck, and weave.  And he knows, even a small fist, even a weak one, if it catches you just right...

The guy lets out a sharp groan at the thud into his ribcage, and Steve feels a little burst of satisfaction bloom in his unevenly pitter-pattering heart.

A burst of satisfaction that's extinguished by the slam of his head into the side of the bar, and the fist that rains down on his head like a brick, knocking him on his face to the floor, bar stools toppling around him.

But then there are two other bodies above him, three sets of legs tangling, and shouts, and struggling, and then there is no one above him, and he manages to lift his head just in time to see Bucky--- _Bucky?_ \---manhandling the guy toward the door, along with a big burly man wearing a bowler and sporting a handelbar mustache who looks like he'd fit right in with the old-timey work outfits of  _The Dream Bean._

"We told ya not to come in 'ere no more, Rollins!" the mustachioed man bellows in a voice like an angry bull, glowering at the door even after the creep---Rollins, apparently---had practically been bodily flung through it.

"Thanks Dugan," Bucky says faintly above him, and then he's on his knees in front of Steve, long fingers gently prodding and pulling him, fluttering around his bruised face with an attentive gentleness he hadn't felt since Ma used to patch him up, tutting about getting in fights again, and it wasn't until this moment that Steve realized how much he'd missed it.

His eyes are stinging and  _oh fuck_ is he crying?  Course, that could also be because he just got his face planted into a bar and then a floor.

His friends are here, craning over Bucky's shoulders now, all staring down at him at once in a wide-eyed half-circle, and for a moment he's reminded of that group shot of the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad from  _Kill Bill_ , only they're all dressed like characters from _The Wizard of Oz_ , except Hank and Pete are dressed like Batman and Robin, and the Scarecrow straw stuffed into his hat has fluttered out all around him, and he giggles like a dork, and then winces, because that hurts too.

"Are you alright?" Natasha demands in that hard, authoritative Manager Voice, like she's going to go stalking out into the street and hunt down Rollins herself, only she's sounding so serious while dressed like the Wicked Witch, and Steve can't stop giggling.

"Auntie Em, Auntie Em, I'm frightened, Auntie Em!" he gasps out through a burst of laugh-crying that has him wheezing and reaching for his inhaler, breathing a ragged sigh of relief when it's still in his pocket, Bucky worriedly hauling him into a sitting position.

"Gee," Tony says from somewhere above, "Who'd a thunk it only takes getting clocked by a date-rapist to get Rogers to crack a joke?"

Tony lets out a high shriek as someone---probably Pepper---elbows him in the ribs, but much closer Bucky is laughing, a rich, velvety sound that Steve hasn't heard for too long, except he's not laughing at Tony, he's laughing at Steve with something that looks like fondness in his eyes.

"You're a punk," the brunette finally says.

"Yea, well you're a jerk," Steve huffs around shots of medicine into his overexerted lungs.

"The jerk who climbed over two other people to save your skinny ass.  Literally climbed, Steve.  I was an action hero for like, ten seconds.  It was awesome."

Steve rolled his eyes.  "I had him on the ropes."

" _On the ropes_ ," Bucky echoed incredulously, "God, where did you come from?"

"Says the guy dressed like The Mad Hatter who works at The Coffee Shop That Time Forgot."

"There's that sass again," the taller man says, gently helping him to his feet.  "Well, I'll say one thing for ya kid, ya got spirit.  If I'd seen that asshole first, I'd have done the same thing."

Steve insists he's only half-leaning against Bucky because he's still slightly off-balance from the punch.  Even through his outfit, he can feel how sturdy Bucky is.  His solidity.  Steve doesn't like being mothered, but he allows himself to admit he's missed a taller, stronger body to lean on and feel safe and secure.   _And wow, that sounded way too girly, Rogers.  But you were just a total BAMF, so it's okay._

It's...nice.  Enough that he doesn't even bitch at Buck for calling him "kid".

"Are you sure you're okay, Mister Rogers?" Pete pipes up, and  _oh god, not again_ , but the kid looks so damn earnest and concerned that Steve can't bring himself to snap at him about it.

"I'm fine.  Just got the wind knocked outta me is all."

"I'm ready to go home whenever you are, Steve," Clint speaks up, and Steve notices the redhead he'd been dancing with---and wow, her suspicious resemblance to Natasha is not something his brain is prepared to analyze right now---trying to hide her disappointment.

"No, I can grab a taxi.  I'll be fine."

Clint's face does that scrunchy thing.  "What?  No, Steve---"

Steve takes another liberal shot from his inhaler, about to snap at everyone to stop hovering over him like he's gonna break, and half of them have surely been in scrapes at some point in their life, and it's not that big a deal, but he never gets the chance, because Bucky smiles that warm, soft, fond smile that does funny things to Steve's insides that he isn't up to dealing with right now.

"Where do ya live, kid?  I'll take ya home."

*** * ***

There was something dreamily mesmerizing about late night car rides, watching the streetlights drift slowly past in endless rows.  Steve would have happily lost himself in gazing out the window, but he was in Bucky's car, and Bucky was driving him home after  _sort of_ helping him out of a scrape that Steve is not fully prepared to admit he needed rescuing from, and he feels obliged to occasionally speak.

"Sorry for ruining the party."

Bucky just glances at him with that same soft smile.  "Don't be.  We both got to look like bad-asses.  How often does that happen for schlubs like us?"

Steve gazed out the window.  "You should have known me growing up."

Bucky raised an inquiring eyebrow.  "You got in fights with all the bullies at recess, didn't you, ya little punk?"

Steve lifted his chin a little higher.  "Somebody had to stand up to them."

"How many times you get beat up?"  
  


Steve shrugged slightly uneasily.  "Way too many to count."

"Jesus, Steve.  You have something against running away?"

Steve squirmed a little, not sure how to explain it.  "You start running....and they'll never let you stop," he finally managed.

"I'm starting to think you  _like_ getting punched.  Is this a fetish, Steve?"  His tone was teasing but his voice warm.  Velvety.  It warmed Steve in a way that had nothing to do with the car's heat.

"I don't  _like_ getting punched...but there's something about proving to yourself....proving to other people....that your body isn't made of glass, 'specially when...everyone treats you like it is."

Bucky stared straight ahead for a long, thoughtful moment, then glanced at Steve.  "I don't think that."

His tone was too sincere.  Steve felt the atmosphere in the car shift into something too serious, too awkward.

"Uh, by the way," Bucky began, sounding uncertain now, in that way he had before he did something mortifying like ask Steve out on a date via dog nametag engraving machines, and Steve felt himself sinking lower in his seat.  "I didn't mean to ambush you.  Tonight.  Peps is my friend from college, and she kind of invited me last minute and dragged me along.  I didn't know you were gonna be there until she blurted it out when I was already on my way.  I know I come on a little strong sometimes, but I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

Well.  That wasn't quite where Steve thought the other man was going with that, and he wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved.  He ran a hand through his unruly blond locks. 

"You don't have to apologize for anything, Bucky.  I'm sorry for being a bitch."

"You're not a bitch, you're a punk," Bucky corrected with a smug grin.

Steve huffed out a laugh in spite of himself.  "Yea well, you're still a jerk, Jerk."

"Fine, Punk."

"I am not afraid to smack you in a moving vehicle, just an FYI...."  
  


"Ooooh, Steve likes to get frisky in cars..... _ow!"_

"Please keep hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times," Steve announced primly.

"Aye aye, Captain."

Steve snorted.  "I have a dog named Captain."

"Living vicariously through your dog, huh---ow, damn it Steve, I'm driving!"

 Steve laughed until he realized he could barely hear himself.  Frowning, he glanced over and realized Bucky was saying something else, big grin on his big dumb unfairly handsome face.

"Shit," he muttered, trying to be unobtrusive about fiddling with his hearing aid.

"That go out often?" Bucky's voice came crackling back into his ear like an adjusted radio signal.

"I manage," Steve flushed, feeling his face turn red.

"You don't have to try to hide it from me, Stevie, just do what ya gotta do..."

"Sorry, it's just....no one exactly likes someone with this thing jutting out of his ear making him look like a cyborg..."  
  


Now Bucky just looked confused.  His brow furrowed but his eyes concerned.  "What....?  You don't look like a _cyborg_..."

"Sorry," Steve sighed, "My.....my ex-boyfriend used to complain about it.  He didn't like me to wear it around him."  
  


"The hell, Steve?  What kind of shit guy were you with?  God forbid you wear your fucking hearing aid..."  
  


Steve hated pity.  If anything, he hated sincere, well-intentioned pity even more than false pity.  But Bucky didn't sound pitying.  Bucky sounded pissed off.  Like he wanted to find Brock Rumlow and punch his lights out.  

"A selfish, controlling asshole," he finally chimed in, meeting Bucky's eyes head-on.  "That's the kind of shit guy I was with."

"Well, no offense, Stevie," Bucky said after a moment, "But I'm kinda surprised a little spitfire like you put up with somebody like that."

"I'm hardly a spitfire, Buck..."

The taller man shrugged in his seat.  "Coulda fooled me."

"You don't even know me," Steve protested, feeling a little desperate for reasons he couldn't really explain.

"I think....." Bucky began hesitantly, as if choosing his next few words carefully, "I think that I know enough....to know that I wouldn't mind getting to know more."

At Steve's reddening face, the other man shifted to face him a little more directly, while still keeping an eye on the deserted road, "I'm not hitting on you, I just....you fascinate me."

"I....fascinate you?"  Bucky's words weren't making any sense.

"Well yea, Steve," Bucky said as if it were the most natural thing in the world, "I don't know if you've noticed or not, but you're kind of a little bad-ass.  You're totally the most interesting person I've met since I don't know when.  I bet you protest to save the whales in your free time, right?"

Steve's face went red as a beet, and Bucky started laughing, high and bright.  "Aww, I _knew_ it!"

"It was one time!"

"God, you're adorable," Bucky tossed out, casual as if he were commenting on the weather, and then froze, eyes going wide as if he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

Steve felt like a deer in headlights, just staring at the other man.  The atmosphere felt charged with electricity.

"Pull over," Steve ordered, the little bit of liquid courage still swirling around in his fuzzy head, and where the fuck did that come from?

"Yes, Sir," Bucky stammered, sounding a little breathless himself.

The crunch of tires on gravel, and then a deafening silence.  Both boys stared at each other, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, like some spell was stopping them from looking away.

Bucky bit his bottom lip in that sinful way that went straight to some embarrassing parts of Steve's body.  "Look, Steve, I didn't--"

 _Oh fuck._ Steve's small fist was in the front of that damn satin shirt, and he was stretching against his seatbelt, and Buck was sliding out of his seat, and their mouths found each other halfway, and  _ohfuckohfuckohfuck---_

Buck's mouth was as soft as it looked, Steve's mouth opening with a greedy little moan and Bucky's hot tongue sliding into his mouth, finding his own, and Steve moaned obscenely and his hand was on Bucky's knee in a death grip and one of Bucky's hands was in his hair, long elegant fingers carding through his blond locks, and then it all slammed into Steve in an overwhelming rush and he jerked back onto his side of the car just as Bucky's luscious lips were wandering to his neck.

"Steve....?"  Bucky sounded wrecked, breathless, and Steve felt a tiny burst of pride that he'd done that.

"I'm sorry," the blond stammered.  "I'm sorry..."

"Don't be," the taller boy murmured, slipping back into his seat with confusion and wariness on his face, "I'm not.  Unless.....I thought you wanted...."

"Uh, yea, I did.  I initiated it, Buck.  Don't be sorry."

Bucky's soft gaze drifted over him, searching.  "But....?"

Steve let out a ragged sigh and ran his hands through his hair.  "I don't....this isn't how I do things."

"We don't have to do anything."

"I....okay, that would be....that's good."

They stared at each other for a moment, hair mussed and slightly wild-eyed, and then Bucky gave a firm nod and turned his attention to the road.

"What do you say I just get you home?"

"I.....yea.  Thanks, Buck."

Bucky stayed silent the rest of the ride, leaving Steve adrift in a swirl of confusing thoughts.

 

**To be continued...**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yea.....I didn't expect that at the end, it just kind of happened. I don't know if I like it or not. But.....there it is.


End file.
